Over the years I’ve absorbed a fair bit of knowledge about what goes on under the hood of my car. But I keep it to myself…unless I happen to be alone on a long trip and have an emergency requiring the aid of an unknown mechanic. In that case, I will do the guy thing and comment on what I suspect the problem is.
Example: “You know, mister, I think it is the alternator. Could you take a look at that for me? I left my overalls at home and don’t want to ruin this dress.”
It keeps expenses to a minimum.
Because I’m small, I probably could not do anything about fixing my car anyway. Fortunately, I have had probably the longest unbroken streak of good luck with cars in the history of womankind. The only time my car will get a flat tire is when there are men either in the car or near-by.
I always let them change the tire for me. It’s good for their self-image. Besides, men still need dragons to slay and changing tires for helpless women is still one of those dragons.
When I have a flat tire, I step out of the car, walk around to the punctured tire and look helpless. Within 30 seconds, a man will pull up and ask if he can change it for me. Of course, I live in the far west, where men are still gallant about such things. I’m not sure how women manage in places like New York City.
If my car breaks down, it will do so in front of a service station or a used car lot. Or when Tim is driving it. I recently drove a newly purchased car across four states and back. True to form for one of my cars, it waited until I pulled into my home driveway before blowing two radiator hoses.
My mechanic just shook his head and said, “Sheri, you must have a flock of angels watching over you!” (And I do, of course.)
That’s why it came as such a shock when I suddenly found myself stranded twenty miles from town in a canyon, in a car that refused to finish the course.
As it coasted to a stop along the shoulder of the road, I thought, “I am definitely not dress for this event!”
It was a hot day and, unfortunately, I was dressed for the weather. The outfit would undoubtedly stop a truck driver but would stifle any sympathy from the other women on the road. This was not good.
The dashboards lights were flashing “check engine-check oil-check battery.” The temperature gauge was moderate.
I rested my forehead against the steering wheel in frustration and more than a little unease, then sighed and got out of the car. I lifted the hood. No steam. No smoke. Good! Nothing earth-shattering.
“Hm. It’s probably the fuel pump,” I thought. But knowing the problem wasn’t comforting. Not fifteen miles from help out in the middle of Montana. I had bigger problems to solve, like how to get into town safely.
Just then a huge, green fuel truck screeched to a halt on the road in front of me and began backing up.
Uh-oh. A strange man! Visions of “America’s Most Wanted” flashed through my mind as I waited apprehensively for him to appear.
A large, grizzled man dressed in a company uniform approached around the end of the truck. He tucked in his shirt, shifted his wad of chewing tobacco, spat, and asked, “You got a problem there, lady?”
I sighed and nodded. “I think so.”
He came over, looked at the engine and said just what I’d thought. “Hm. No smoke. No steam.” He fiddled with a few lines and said, “You wanna try starting ‘er up again?”
“Okay,” I said meekly, walking back to the car door. The engine started. Yes! Then it died again. No!
“I don’t think it’s going to make it,” I sighed, getting out of the car and walking back to the truck driver. “Hm,” I muttered, staring at the engine.
So did he.
“Would you happen to have a cell phone?” I asked.
“I do,” he nodded. Looking around at the canyon walls towering over the road he added, “Well, maybe.”
No dice. The phone was useless.
“You know where Bob’s Market is?” I asked cautiously.
“Sure do.”
“Could I get a lift there?”
A few minutes later, bouncing along on the front seat of the truck, we cleared the canyon. I immediately called Tim at work. I was expecting him to say something like, “Honey! Are you okay? I’ll be right there!”
What came out was, “So why did you call me? Why didn’t you stay with the car and call Auto Club?”
Why, after all these years, does Tim persist in thinking I can take care of myself?
The truck driver thoughtfully deposited me right outside the door of Bob’s Market. I thanked him for the ride and climbed down from the cab, palms sweating from the nervousness of my narrow escape from this stranger. As I turned to wave good-by, I saw the man lift the cell phone to his hear. Through the open window of the cab I heard him say, “Hello, Dear. Just thought I’d call you and let you know I’m okay…”
(Rule of Three: In the story, I described myself as small and helpless when it comes to cars. And I am. So the last line was the change of perspective, and that creates humor. Another way to write humor is to tell what you are thinking when it goes against what is usually said aloud – The things we think but never say.)